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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26094517">A Love Too Great to Bear</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/batradias/pseuds/simplifyingforces'>simplifyingforces (batradias)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Terror (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Christmas, First Time, Fix-It, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 03:21:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,723</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26094517</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/batradias/pseuds/simplifyingforces</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Francis and James have returned from the Arctic healthy, but not necessarily whole. Can Christmas provide the right atmosphere to restore their friendship...and possibly more?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>The Terror Big Bang 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Arctic, April 1848</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This story uses one element from the book (not the parts people usually don't like), namely Francis' culminating encounter with the Tuunbaq. Everything else character and plot-wise is from the television show.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>“It is of course possible that what I remember as terror was only a love too great to bear.”</em>
</p><hr/><p>By a combination of dumb luck and quick thinking, Lieutenant Irving had saved them all. At least, Captain Francis Crozier thought, in the short term. There were so many of them left. So many mouths to feed, and so little food to go around.</p><p>The Netsilik had graciously given them seal meat. “The sustenance they’re giving us will last, if we’re lucky, three days,” he’d said solemnly at the officers’ meeting that night. They had put up the hunting group in a tent and provided them with tools and equipment. </p><p>For three days of food.</p><p>“Can we offer them something better?” Lieutenant Little asked. He hesitated. “Guns, even?”</p><p>Francis shook his head. “Despite their long years here, they struggle as we do to find ample provisions. They can’t have much for themselves, which means no amount of trade will be enough.”</p><p>“What can we do then, sir?” Lieutenant Jopson gave him a determined eye. “We are up for any challenge.”</p><p>“I believe it may be best for us to send a couple men with them, back to their people. We can enter negotiations. See what they can offer, and what we can provide in return. We must,” Francis emphasized, “keep our promises, men.” He gave each man at the table his attention. “They are our best hope now.”</p><p>“And Lieutenant Fairholme,” added Lieutenant Hodgson, voice rising in slight question at the end. Francis saw his second, Captain James Fitzjames, shift next to him.</p><p>Of his officers, only James knew the truth. In the last months of the expedition, they had shared many secrets, whispered over maps and spoken, much more openly, on their walk to the cairn. Now, so close to salvation, it was time to share the reality of their situation with the men.</p><p>He took a breath. “On this matter, I have news to share. A few days ago—“</p><p>Suddenly, a loud shout cut through the air, ending on a strangled scream.</p><p>As the officers of the abandoned <em> Erebus </em> and <em> Terror </em> sprang into action, they heard the unmistakable and familiar roar of the Tuunbaq.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. London, November 1848</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It was December, and there was too much light.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis had thought, in those desperate years on Terror, that it would be the opposite. That he’d always crave more sun, more light, more warmth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, the haul had happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The light lit up the back of his eyelids; no amount of turning away was going to change the fact that his body was now overly aware of it. Francis swung out of the bed and shuffled toward the window, pulling the heavy curtains closed before flopping back onto the bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lay there for a moment, listening to the sound of nothingness; no creaking, groaning, cracking ice. No crunching of rocks, or whistling of wind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was only stillness and the sound of his own breathing, which was now speeding up. Francis blinked into the darkness. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re awake</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thought. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re alive</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You are in this great big house all alone</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gasped and threw back the covers, skidded to the window, and re-opened the curtain. Outside, it was a soft, yellow morning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis rubbed his dry eyes and took in a lungful of air.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re pathetic</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thought, and began to get dressed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>— </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every day felt like a blur. So much color, everywhere. Francis tried to curb it by limiting his days. He rose early from a restless sleep each morning, read the paper with breakfast, and did not go anywhere all day if he could help it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, at night, he would walk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the months since his return from the expedition, he had learned more about London than he ever cared to. He let his feet lead him down streets, through parks, never going anywhere. He did not venture into new businesses, or visit old friends. He simply walked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When his feet began to ache and the gas lamps blurred his vision, he would make his way home and try to sleep. He found that the walking made it easier, not due to any sort of fatigue, but simply because it reminded him of his long, solitary walks to and from </span>
  <em>
    <span>Erebus</span>
  </em>
  <span>, when he had been almost singularly burdened with the knowledge of their terrible circumstances. Just as he had cast aside his duties and lost himself in the Arctic wind, he now let himself forget himself in those hours on the London pavement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis had never been accosted on his nightly walks. He supposed it was because he was fairly off-putting himself these days, in demeanor as well as in appearance. None of that bothered him in the slightest. There was no one to impress; there never had been. And if his scraggly beard and unkempt clothing served an additional, useful purpose these days, so much the better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Upon returning home, he quietly slid the key in the lock and made his way past the sitting room, dimly lit by the fireplace, and towards the stairway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Frank,” a voice rose from out of the darkness. A dark shape moved toward him from the sitting room corner, and Francis felt pure terror for just the slightest second before he placed the sound and remembered where he was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, sorry,” Sir James Clark Ross said then, and hurriedly walked over to the fireplace at the far wall of the sitting room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis joined him, holding his still-trembling hands clasped tightly behind him. Embarrassing, really.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Didn’t mean to startle you. I was making the rounds and noticed you weren’t in.” James paused, and flicked a glance at Francis. “You don’t seem to be in very much in the evenings these days.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything to say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you do out there, at night?” James had said then, staring intently into the fire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis turned his own eyes to the flames. “Nothing.” He let out a breath. “Nothing at all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” James said, after a long moment. “Well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stood together by the fire for a moment. Francis could feel the heat licking at his face and hands. He wanted to crawl into the fire and let it burn every part of him to nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To his right, James cleared his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” he said, a bit awkwardly. “Ann and I are heading north with the girls for the holidays.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm,” Francis replied. He was still thinking about how wonderful it would feel to step into the fireplace and into oblivion when James spoke again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought you might enjoy the house to yourself, but I have concerns, Francis.” James slid a hand over his shoulder. “Are you well?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>, thought Francis, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t think I’ll ever be well again</span>
  </em>
  <span>. His stomach turned as he thought of Dr. Stanley, engulfed in flames. He stepped back from the fireplace and swallowed bile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well enough,” he said quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James peered at him through shadow. “I would ask someone to stay with you, but I doubt you would allow it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis gave another non-committal hum. The smell of Stanley’s burning flesh lingered just under the surface of Ann’s floral arrangements and the crackling wood. Francis had hoped never to smell it again. Another dashed hope to pile on the expedition, he supposed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Next to him, James cleared his throat. “Well. James Fitzjames will be in town shortly on personal business.” Francis tightened his hands behind his back and turned his face into the room’s shadow. “I thought he might be a welcome addition to your holiday,” James finished, in a tone that sounded more like a question than a statement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis flinched, just barely. “No,” he whispered, the sound just escaping his tight throat. “No, James, he would not. Or,” Francis let out an ugly, sharp bark of laughter, “I should say I would be an unwelcome addition to his.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Frank,” James said then, and in such a tone that it made Francis turn to look back up into his face. “That cannot possibly be true.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Francis thought</span>
  <em>
    <span>, if only you knew what I knew, James. If you did, you would not dare to ask.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you spent years in that hell together, Francis, and surely know him better than most,” James went on, “but you have not seen him as recently as I have. The man is in desperate need of a friendly face.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis felt his palms begin to sweat. “Well.” He cleared his throat. “I am sure, man that he is, that he would be able to find many such people easily.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And yet, that does not seem to be the case,” James replied in exasperation. “Come now, Frank. He needs someone who knows what he has been through.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>As do you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Francis could almost hear him adding on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I —,” Francis paused, pulling at the hem of his waistcoat with a sticky hand. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pathetic</span>
  </em>
  <span>, his mind whispered, </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span> needy</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “I would be honored to host Fitzjames for Christmas.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James beamed at him then, teeth gleaming in the firelight. “Splendid. I will write to him shortly.” He took a victorious step forward, and clapped a hand on Francis’ shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It will be good for the both of you,” James whispered, squeezing gently. “I truly believe this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis nodded, eyelids fluttering closed to avoid James’ sincere gaze. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pathetic</span>
  </em>
  <span>, his mind whispered again, before he shut it down and thought again of the fire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To have been Stanley, glorious and glowing, and feeling nothing but a fire so hot it became cold again. Francis shuddered, and headed up the stairs to his darkened, borrowed bedroom. He left the curtains open.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Arctic, April 1848</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“At least twenty dead, and four or five run off,” Thomas Blanky said in a low voice as he approached Francis in the dark.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Hickey?” Francis asked, running a shaking hand through his hair. His eyes desperately scanned the camp for his second’s familiar face, to no avail. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll let you have your best guess on that one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” Francis sighed. “Any officers?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hodgson was killed,” Blanky said, and Francis let out a shameful breath of relief. “Leg and an arm torn away. The others are no worse for wear.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And the Netsilik?” Francis can’t spare the time to brood, to mourn, to do anything but plan their next steps forward. He can feel the fatigue building in his bones.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All accounted for.” Blanky paused. “But they’re shaken up. It seems that Mr. Hickey and his merry band started some trouble with them just before the beast arrived. And then it came, not a moment too soon.” He gave Francis a meaningful look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Retaliation,” Francis muttered. “Again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blanky nodded. “When all hell broke loose, they must have hunkered down until it was over. Not a scratch on their tent.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And did they recognize the creature?” Francis asked. “Did you speak with them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, they knew it,” Blanky replied, voice grim. “Certainly by the time they saw Lady Silence.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” Francis said again, dully. “Well, the beast has solved our earlier problem,” he added with a bitter laugh. “We can probably last a week on that seal now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Francis heard Thomas’ reproach, James appeared to his left out of the night fog.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you well, James?” Francis asked hurriedly. It was difficult to see in the poor light of his lantern, and James had made no move to come closer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” James rasped. “Even gave Mr. Teeth and Claws a parting gift.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aye!” Blanky let out a hearty laugh. “So, the rocket hit true, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James nodded. “As ever.” He sounded lost, as if he couldn’t quite recall the question. Francis saw his silhouette turn out toward the camp. “What in hell do we do now?” he muttered, voice just barely carrying enough to be heard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sleep,” Francis replied, voice more tender than he had intended. “The rest can wait for morning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James slowly turned back to him, curiously silent. Francis held himself still, feeling the sensation of frank appraisal that radiated from his shadowed form. He wanted to reach out and shake James out of this strange state, whatever it was. It made the skin on the back of his neck prickle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aye, captain,” Blanky said, breaking the silence with his usual tact. “That I can do.” He hobbled off and James swiftly followed. Francis, heart still hammering, turned into his tent and lay awake, staring at the ceiling of the tent for quite some time. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. London, December 1848</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It was another month before James Fitzjames was to make his appearance, and Francis prepared by doing two things.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>First, he tried very desperately to think of ways to avoid speaking to his upcoming visitor about their final days together in the Arctic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Second, he shaved his beard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thirty days later, Francis did not feel overly happy about either of these efforts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yes, Ann had nodded at his clean-shaven face encouragingly, but Francis knew that it only emphasized the degree to which his insomnia and melancholy had aged him. He hadn’t turned back to drink, but it was a near thing some nights. Hence, the walking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As for the first: Francis had no idea how to even broach the prospect of spending time with James without the spectre of the voyage hanging over them. It was, in fact, at the root of his resistance to attempt contacting James again. The Arctic had bound them, and unbound them. What hope could it have here, in the so-called civilized world?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis sighed, rubbing his thumb across his jaw as he stared into nothingness. He shouldn’t have succumbed so easily to James Ross’ entreaty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was roused suddenly by Ann’s presence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Francis,” she said, swooping down to sit beside him. “You look particularly broody today. Thinking about how much you’re going to miss us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked up at her blankly, and, in the moment of silence, felt he had missed his step in the conversation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes, always so soft and forgiving, crinkled in concern. She reached over to him and set his unruly fringe to rights.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As always, I appreciate your care,” he said with a wry smile. Ann waited for him to continue, hands in lap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think.” He paused and shot a sheepish glance at Ann’s expectant face. “I think a holiday alone may have been the better choice this year,” he said. “James Fitzjames would much rather prefer more rousing company, I’m certain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Interesting,” Ann replied after a moment, eyes turned speculative. “And here it seemed more like you would prefer to be alone for the holidays, and were not thinking of Captain Fitzjames’ well-being at all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis winced.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ann took pity on him with a twitch of the lips before sobering. “You know, Francis, we missed you very terribly all those years. And,” she paused, eyes flicking down for the briefest moment, “sometimes, we still do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis raised a brow in question. Ann stared back at him, and they entered into a silent stalemate for an amount of time that began to make Francis distinctly uncomfortable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look,” Ann finally said in frustration, breaking the silence. “You and your James. You’ve got to resolve it.” She leaned forward, elbows on skirts, hands on chin, eyes intent. “For all of us, and not least of which, for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis closed his eyes and let out a long breath through his nose. Ann had always been perceptive. No one had said a word about what had transpired to her, and the little her husband knew about it would not be enough for her to know of the strife that had separated him from his men’s confidence in those final days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, she had seen him, lived with him, and known him well. She had looked beyond the typical melancholy that arose on a return from a long, harrowing expedition and seen something deeper. No contact with anyone, including Blanky or his James. And she had known.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My James,” Francis said then with a jolt of surprise, and laughed incredulously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And how else should I put it?” Ann replied, barely stifling a laugh of her own. “Captain Fitzjames? Every time?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Francis said, grin fading slightly, “just don’t let him hear you say it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ann rose then, skirts scratching the sofa. “Let us find you well after the holiday, Francis.” She leaned down and grazed his smooth cheek with soft lips. “Promise me you will try.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis felt the shameful heat of brimming tears in his eyes. “I don’t know how to start,” he whispered. He grasped her arm tighter than he had any right to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ann let out a breath of laughter that slid over his skin. “As much as you often struggle to achieve it, try speaking to the poor man.” She pulled back then, his grip loosening to let her go. “Show your heart.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis ducked and brushed his eyes with a rough fist. He nodded, and listened to her depart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few hours later, and he was alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next day, James Fitzjames arrived at his doorstep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” Francis said when he opened the door to his former second. All of the staff had been sent home for the holidays at his request, and he found himself regretting it at this exact moment, when all he could do was stare foolishly open-mouthed in the doorway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James Fitzjames stared back at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They eyed each other for an endless moment, and all Francis could think was, </span>
  <em>
    <span>he looks well, very well</span>
  </em>
  <span>, on repeat in his addled brain. When the breeze picked up the healthy curl over James’ brow, Francis’ breath hitched.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come in,” he finally said brusquely. James stared a second longer before bustling in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look well,” Francis said as soon as the door closed. “Very well.” He felt a strong urge to tear out his hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James turned toward him, face unreadable. “And you.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Despite your best efforts to remain unseen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Francis coughed. “You can follow me to the guest rooms upstairs. Put your things away.” He strode off without waiting for James to follow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he got to the door, James was closer than he’d expected, damn his long strides. The clean scent of his cologne was unsettling. Francis fumbled with the door knob and opened it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll let you get settled,” he muttered, stepping to the side, eyes averted. “Supper in an hour.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He made a hasty retreat to his own rooms down the hall. If James was inclined to stop him, he made no effort to do so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis spent the next hour rummaging through the Rosses’ kitchen to scrounge up a simple meal of cold meats and bread. He should take James out, but the thought of it galled him. The heat of the crowd and the expectation to converse. No, this would do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just as he set out a pitcher of water, he heard James’ footfalls on the stairs. He straightened and stepped back from the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” James said, stopping to glance at the food. “Wine?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, of course,” Francis said. He fumbled for the bottle at the end of the table and filled a glass entirely too high. James stepped over to take it before sitting down in the dining chair just next to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After taking a moment to fill his own glass with water, Francis joined him. This was the closest they’d been since docking in port. It was the first time he’d sat next to James and not had the slightest clue what to say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As always, James came to the conversational rescue. “The Rosses have a lovely home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Francis murmured. “Quite.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nice, ah, furnishings,” James added haltingly. “Comfortable.” He shifted in his chair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis frowned to himself, and took a sip of water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you enjoy it?” James said. “Living here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis glanced up at James’ face. He was biting the inside of his cheek. From the corner of his eye, he saw James’ hand circle the rim of his glass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do,” Francis said. He did not continue the line of thought, which very vividly presented to him the overwhelming feeling of resignation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James nodded, face oddly slack. “I came to be sure that you were well, Francis. I’m glad to hear from you directly that you are.” He continued to fidget.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And?” Francis said into the taut silence. Francis knew well enough that this meant James had his own intrusive line of thought crowding his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And,” James said tightly, “I also resent you for it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“James—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope you understand that I wish to be open and clear about this, Francis, if we are to spend the next week together,” James said, overriding him. “I cannot so easily forget the Arctic, as you have done.” He passed a shaking hand over his face, rubbing absently at one eye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I haven’t, James,” Francis whispered. He reached forward, but the look on James’ face made him abort the motion halfway through.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James peered at him then, taking in his sickly skin and dull hair. “Should I believe you, Francis? Tell me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve never lied to you.” Francis took a deep breath, and raised his chin. So they would speak on it, so soon. “Never.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, that is, in one distinct way, very true,” James replied, mouth quirking upward in a sad facsimile of a smile. “But in another, very much a lie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He suddenly pushed back his chair, legs screeching on the floor. “I’m very tired, Francis.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis nodded, shoulders sagging. So James would make him wait. Draw it out as a torture. “Good night, James.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James nodded and swiftly took his leave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as he turned the corner, Francis lay his forehead on the cool table, and shut his eyes.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Arctic, April 1848</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“You really think we should take off and follow the Esquimaux, captain?” Tom Hartnell looked at Francis anxiously as he broke down the tent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Most of us will stay behind,” Francis grunted as he lifted the canvas. “But you and I, along with Lady Silence, may be able to save us all. And we must try our hardest to achieve that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right, sir, of course.” Hartnell said. “It’s just. I don’t speak Esquimaux, sir. And I’d like to be of help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your presence and your loyalty will be, son.” Francis clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Besides, I need Mr. Blanky and Dr. Goodsir to remain here, ready to communicate and to assist in vital duties if things go badly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, sir.” Hartnell nodded sharply. “I’ll be off to prepare.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few minutes of wonderful silence gave way to another voice entirely. “Captain Crozier,” Dr. Harry Goodsir ventured from behind him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis turned at the hesitant voice that had not been present from his sole remaining doctor for some time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need to speak with you.” Goodsir glanced around furtively. “In private.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis tilted his head in acknowledgment and followed Harry to his tent. Just inside lay an unfortunately familiar figure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“James?” Francis hustled into the tent, heart pounding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James sat up with a jolt, and immediately winced. “It’s nothing, Francis. Just got a bit tired in the sun and tripped over some shale.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis glanced up at Harry, who gave a subtle shake of the head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you decided to rest, then? At least wait until I’ve left,” Francis joked softly, crouching down to James’ level.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me, James,” he said, eyes roving over his body. “What ails you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Truly, Francis, it’s nothing. I can manage while you’re gone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not worried about that,” Francis said softly. He stopped scanning at the sight of dark staining on James’ shirt, just above his side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James’ eyes followed him to the spot. “Damn stories always come back to haunt, eh?” He raised glassy eyes to Francis, mouth tilted in a slight, rueful smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis frowned at him. “Rest as much as you need to. I expect to see you in better spirits by the time I return.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James stared at him for a long moment. “When you return, I’ll be in high spirits indeed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis warmed, as he now often tended to do at James’ open-voiced trust. “Let us hope I bring good news worthy to raise them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James’ brow furrowed for a second. “Of course,” he said slowly. “Right. We will be waiting with baited breath.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For that to be possible, it would be best for Captain Fitzjames to rest as much as possible from now onward,” Dr. Goodsir cut in. “Apologies, captain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis rose, brushing his hands together. “None needed, Dr. Goodsir. I must be off myself.” He laid his gaze on James one more time; the man was already lying back, eyes drifting closed.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>We will bring good news, James</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Francis thought at him fervently. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We must.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>—</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me, once again, </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly</span>
  </em>
  <span> how he said it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis took a deep breath and repeated to Blanky the phrase the Netsilik hunter had relayed to him just days before. Next to him, Lady Silence—</span>
  <em>
    <span>Silna</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he chided himself—nodded in agreement. He had learned very much on this trip. Too much, it had turned out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blanky gave him a glare fit for a king. “I’m almost afraid to ask my next question.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis ducked his head. “I did not give a firm answer.” The arctic wind blew the tent canvas around them, but it could not cover the sounds of groaning men, ill with innumerable ailments. “But, I am planning on agreeing to their terms.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned back to Blanky, who had stilled completely. It was the most disturbing thing he had ever seen the man do. It was enough for Silna to swiftly leave the tent, giving Francis a light touch on the shoulder as she left.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis closed his eyes for a moment, and forged ahead. “Fairholme is not coming. I have to think about what is best.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And Lady Silence agrees to this? It affects her as much as you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Francis said softly. “I believe we are of one mind on this.” He had thought for the entire trip back to camp on how best to communicate the term “kindred spirits” in Inuktitut, but some meanings between languages were beyond grasp. Especially those that meant the most.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you would leave James to lead?” Blanky scoffed. “Francis.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He is as much an arctic veteran as any of us now,” Francis said defensively.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s besides the point! The man is dying, as you well know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis consciously schooled his features into neutrality. By Blanky’s facial expression, he had been about as successful as he ever was. He had stopped by James’ tent first thing, only to find the man was still in the medical tent, sleeping fitfully through a coursing fever. At Dr. Goodsir’s request, he had refrained from waking him, even though all he had wanted to do was shake and shake and shake him until he was forced to wake. Forced to show he was still alive. He had days, Francis knew, if that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And if I do not do this,” Francis whispered, voice cracking slightly, “he will never lead an expedition. He will never get off this damn island.” Francis rubbed at his brow. “None of them will.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And how do you think he will respond to your absence, Francis? How will any of them?” Blanky countered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“None of them will know. Not until it’s done.” Francis sat on the cot, suddenly weary. “I leave this burden to you, Thomas. As much as I would like to carry it alone, I cannot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aye,” Blanky said. “So you’ll leave your own second to wonder. He will hate you for it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s used to the concept,” Francis said with a laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blanky hummed. “I wonder.” He joined Francis on the cot, both of their bodies tilting toward one another with the weight. “I didn’t want you to do this months ago, before Sir John’s passing. And your prospects then were certainly better than they are now. This is a journey meant for no Englishman.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis nodded, and laid a hand on Blanky’s forearm. “A captain’s duty, Thomas. I can save all of you from this. They have guaranteed it.” He laughed then. “And besides, for once, I’m fortunately no Englishman.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blanky quirked a quick smile before sobering. “And all they want in exchange is your soul,” he replied, voice steady. He laid his own hand over Francis’. “I cannot agree to this, Francis, but I will not stop you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis squeezed Blanky’s arm and took in every feature of him. He could not bear to do this with anyone else. It would sap all his courage in going. “Thank you,” he said, pouring his gratitude for all things into it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stared at one another for a moment, and the world fell away. Nothing existed but the tangible connection between them. Then, as if from another realm entirely, the dinner bell rang.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The spell now broken, Francis stood, back and knees aching. They needed to leave at first light, and he had packing to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you live,” Blanky said, voice rough, as Francis reached the tent flap. “Will you come back to see us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know if I would be someone worth seeing, Thomas. But,” Francis paused, “I promise I will send word.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He did not add that, if he lived, he did not think he could bear it.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. London, December 1848</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next day, Francis woke to the sound of a crash and loud swearing.</p><p>“Damn!” Another crash. “Oh, no.” Scraping noises filled the brief silence. “No, no, no, no.”</p><p>Now fully awake, Francis shot up and hurried down the hall to James’ room.</p><p>When he arrived, he took in the strangest sight. James was half under the bed, wrestling with some hidden thing.</p><p>“James? D’you need a hand?”</p><p>James jerked his arms back, pulling with him some giant black ball of fur. “Open the window,” he panted, hair askew. “All the way.”</p><p>Francis ran to the window and threw it open. Quick as anything, James tossed the ball of fur out onto the jutting roof and slammed the window shut. They watched the thing slink away off the edge, completely unbothered.</p><p>“A lovely home with devious beasts about, more like,” James said, smoothing his hair back. Raised drops of blood freckled his cheek and jaw in a pattern of long scratches.</p><p>Francis felt himself go weak. “Your face,” he said faintly.</p><p>James swiped his fingers across his cheek. “Wonderful,” he sighed as he examined the blood on his fingertips. “Have you got a towel?” He glanced up, and his eyes widened. Francis realized he must look a terrible sight, still mussed from sleep and underdressed, pale at the sight of the smallest amount of bloodshed. He felt his face burn in embarrassment.</p><p>“Of course I do,” he replied gruffly. “Just a moment.”</p><p>“Wait!” James said sharply. He clapped a hand to Francis’ shoulder and pulled him roughly forward.</p><p>“Wh—?” Francis tried to twist away, taken aback. James brought his other hand, still tinged with blood, up to Francis’ open neckline and brushed the scar that ran from his neck and into a half-hazard path down to his chest and almost down to his hip bone. Not that James could see anything past the first deep inch of it, where the knife had slid out. Where it had sprayed his own blood over his cheek.</p><p>“Mr. Blanky told me,” James murmured, “but I didn’t know it was so—,” he swallowed and stopped, eyes flicking away and up to Francis’ face.</p><p>Francis shook out of his grasp and took a step toward the door. “You’re the one bleeding now, James.” He slid out to the bathroom without waiting for a response.</p><p>James let out an incredulous laugh. “It’s a bloody cat scratch. You could have died, Francis!” he yelled.</p><p>Francis sighed, grabbed a washcloth from the washroom, and filled a small bowl with water. When he stepped back into the room, he found James pacing by the bed, fist clenched.</p><p>“Sit, James. You can have at me while I clean up your face.”</p><p>James glared at him, sitting up by the headboard, while Francis set the water bowl on the nightstand and dropped the washcloth inside.</p><p>“That cat’s always prowling around,” Francis said as he reached for the washcloth and wrung it out. “I should have mentioned it before. The girls have let it in twice now.”</p><p>“Damn the cat!” James looked like fury incarnate, the scratches swollen red on his cheek. He resembled the fuzzy memories Francis held of James before he’d given up drink, eyes shining and hands shaking in rage.</p><p>“I knew you had made that ridiculous bargain, Francis,” James gritted out through clenched teeth, while Francis gently wiped his face clean. “I knew that it all went badly, very badly, without a soul to help you, as you foolishly intentionally planned. But seeing it is. It’s just beyond.”</p><p>Francis set the bloodstained cloth back in the bowl. He didn’t dare look up. “You would have died, James,” he replied softly, hands wringing the rag, blood spiraling out into the water before dissipating into clear nothingness. “You all would have died.”</p><p>James quieted, but Francis knew it was the quiet of contemplation and not acceptance.</p><p>“And maybe we should have.” James settled back against the headboard. “It would have been unnatural, what you planned to do.”</p><p>Francis said nothing.<em> But it didn’t happen </em> , he wanted to say. <em> And you’re here, alive, fishing stray cats out of your soft, warm bed. Because of me. Because </em> . Francis' thoughts suddenly stuttered. <em> Because of me. </em>He felt a coldness run down his spine.</p><p>Francis turned away, and bent down to gather the supplies, bunching a fist at the fabric over his chest as he did so.</p><p>When he looked up, James had put himself back to rights, cuts barely visible in the morning light.</p><p>“After all that chaos, let me make breakfast, at least,” James said as he buttoned his cuff. Francis nodded, a lump in his throat, and shuffled out the door.</p><p>
  
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. The Arctic, April 1848</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The crisp air that seared Francis’ cheeks grew colder the further they trekked north. He had long given up on trying to understand where they were going. The shaman led, Silna behind him, and Francis took the rear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he often found himself doing, he turned his mind to his men, who by now must be safe and warm in the figurative arms of the Netsilik. He did not linger on who may no longer be living.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, he envisaged James, alive and whole, leading the men with calm demeanor and firm leadership. He imagined James being the man he was meant to be. Francis did not dare to think on what James may believe about him now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ahead, the shaman motioned for them to stop. The man was soft-spoken and spare with all language, making it difficult for Francis to parse his meaning in most things.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silna turned to him, nodded after a moment, and then turned to Francis. “You go alone now.” She pointed to the ridge ahead. “There.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis scanned the ridge, looking for the best route up and over. He was as concerned about getting back down as making his way up, especially with injuries.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We will come,” Silna said, in a soft, but firm, reminder. “Either way, we will come.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis inhaled deeply, the air like a sharp knife to his throat. He let his breath out in a cloud. His companions silently eyed him, and he remained as much at a loss as to what their expressions meant as he did the first day he encountered these people years ago. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s probably something along the lines of “poor bastard,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” he thought to himself wryly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis gave them a final nod and headed for the ridge. He had no otherworldly senses, despite what he was about to undertake. He felt the weight of the knife on his belt. He knew that there, in the great white beyond, the Tuunbaq was waiting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he ascended the ridge, Francis thought back to the conversation he had held with the shaman a week prior, when he had first learned of his fate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You will have to kneel at the water’s edge,” the shaman had said, voice carrying in the Netsilik tent. “He will come when he is ready to come.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How long?” Francis had asked, as if outside of himself. He felt like a floating nothing in a void past existence. Like he had already died.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When he is ready,” the shaman had repeated, “he will come.” The man had settled his grave gaze on Francis. “Then, you will close your eyes and offer yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis had flinched. “Offer?” And how should he offer himself? Like a cow to the slaughter, or like a woman on her wedding night? Perhaps, he snorted, like a parishioner receiving communion?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silna had slid her eyes to him and gave a subtle grimace. The shaman had opened his mouth and slid his tongue out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” Francis had said, throat dry. “Well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shaman had closed his mouth, tongue swiping his lips before retreating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If Tuunbaq accepts, we live. If Tuunbaq does not accept, we die.” He had reached into the folds of his caribou skin parka and withdrew a small knife, which he pressed into Francis’ palm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis felt the heft of the knife now as he approached the shoreline. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We live or we die</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Francis repeated to himself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We all live, or we all die</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Here he was, an alcoholic ornery Irishman, responsible for the lives of two peoples.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As far as he could tell, there was no way to guarantee success on the matter. He had asked the shaman what seemed to be endless questions on the topic. All of them had garnered the same answer. Offer yourself. You must offer. Bring offering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis felt no more enlightened by this information as he took his place at a kneel. Papist imagery, a woman’s spread legs, beef steak — bloody and wet and wanting. Who was wanting?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His knees began to ache. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hurry up and take my life already</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thought. “Take my life and let it be — consecrated, Lord, to thee,” he sang in an undertone, a long forgotten memory of a hymn from his youth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He felt a hysterical laugh bubble in his throat. “Take my voice and let me sing — always, only, for my King.” His voice carried over the silent snowy plains surrounding him. “Take my lips and let them be — filled with messages from thee.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He heard the shuffle of heavy feet, and kept his head lowered as he raised the knife. “Take my will and make it thine; it shall be no longer mine. Take my heart it is thine own; it shall be thy royal throne.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He felt the humid breath of the beast brush the hair on his head. “Take myself, and I will be — ever, only, all for thee,” he whispered, and tilted his head upward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stuck his filthy, cold, calloused fingers into the damp of his mouth. As he raised his right hand, knife gleaming in the sun, he spared a final thought for his men. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bless them</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thought, and wondered later who he may have been praying to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, all went dark, and his blood sprayed the rocks.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. London, December 1848</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Francis did not speak with James on the Arctic for the next three days. In that time, James went God knew where and met with some indeterminate number of people. Francis wasn’t sure why James had agreed to stay in London for Christmas, but he imagined it had to do with these social engagements. Perhaps he was to be married. Or, heaven forbid, accept a new expedition post.</p><p>Francis’ stomach roiled at the thought.</p><p>He had considered asking. But after the cat incident, it was difficult for him to even muster up a sentence. Ever since the day they had met, he had been able to speak to James, even if it meant they were at each other's throats. Francis’ decision had changed all of that, and he saw few avenues for its return.</p><p>It was for that reason as much as any other that, on Christmas Eve, Francis cooked a Christmas goose, following the optimistic numbered directions left behind by the Rosses’ cook at his request. He was determined to make a good go of it, and maybe provide a warm enough environment for James to listen—really listen—and understand his actions. He could get through the rest of life’s dull monotony if he could regain James’ understanding, if not his trust and brotherhood. He would be content with it.</p><p>At a quarter to seven, James arrived home. Led by the scent of freshly-cooked goose, no doubt, he entered the dining room, eyebrows raised.</p><p>“Good God, Francis. I didn’t know you had it in you.”</p><p>Francis snorted. “Sit down then and see if I succeeded, or if it just looks like I did.”</p><p>“It certainly looks a picture,” James murmured, eyes flicking around the room before landing on him. “And you’re festive!”</p><p>Francis pulled on his green waistcoat. “James and Ann insisted,” he said, red-faced.</p><p>“And I will have to thank them for it,” James said with a smile. “Thank you, Francis. Truly. You didn’t have to go out of your way.”</p><p>Francis shrugged. “It’s the least I can do, host that I’m reliably told I am.”</p><p>James laughed, eyes crinkling. Francis felt his chest expand as the warmth between them filled the room.</p><p>They ate in companionable silence occasionally interspersed by appreciative comments from James on the cuisine.</p><p>Afterward, they retired to the parlor.</p><p>“Not enough people for games or music, I’m afraid,” Francis said as he took a seat on a parlor chair. James snorted and joined him.</p><p>“Perfectly alright with me. A festive air...” he trailed off and let out a cough. “Well. Memories.”</p><p>Francis firmly clasped his hands together so as not to do anything untoward. “James,” he began.</p><p>“Let us not speak of it,” James cut in. He turned to Francis, bright-eyed. His hair shone in the firelight. Francis thought of that hair, fanned out around him, as he lay dying in the Arctic. He stood abruptly.</p><p>“I did, if you can believe it, get you a gift,” he said quickly as he strode to the fireplace mantel, where he had propped the thing behind a vase before dinner. “In the spirit of things, I suppose.”</p><p>He reached up and grabbed the package, overly aware of the silence filling the room. When he turned, he caught James’ eye. “I hope you will accept it, James, and all that I would speak to you about before you leave.”</p><p>James started. “Leave?” He rose, meeting Francis at the mantel. “Yes, Francis, I would very much like to discuss things.”</p><p>“First,” Francis muttered, throat dry as James drew closer, “the gift.”</p><p>He thrust the paper-wrapped parcel into James’ hands and stepped back, hands clasped behind him. “For when you’ve gone.” He paused. “If you’d like.”</p><p>James gave him a puzzled glance, and then set to unwrapping the brown paper. He paused, staring at the contents.</p><p>“Francis,” he said, after a moment. “Where do you think I’m going after the holiday?”</p><p>Francis pressed his thumb into the meat of his other palm. “From all your meetings these past few days, I concluded that you plan to either marry or go back into service. I cannot—“ he paused, and swallowed, “imagine you would choose the latter, but I felt it best, as your former captain, to give you the best tools to keep in contact with—with the men who became your brothers-in-arms these last few trying years.”</p><p>James stared at him, slack jawed, eyebrows raising in surprise. “Please James, don’t look at me so. I may be foolish in many ways, but I’m not blind to your comings and goings.”</p><p>“Francis.” James took a step forward, and then back again. “You—“ He slid a hand over his brow, and laughed thinly. “You give me this gift, assuming my departure, dictating its terms of use, and declaring your complete and utter misunderstanding of our current circumstances.”</p><p>Francis found himself raising his own brows in surprise. “Do what you please with it, James, by all means. I merely suggested—“</p><p>“And in your suggestion you played your predictable, selfish hand,” James said as he flung the gift to the floor.</p><p>Francis felt pure heat rush to his face. “How dare you,” he growled. “I bring you a peace offering, after months of silence and years of horror.”</p><p>“A peace offering!” James retorted. “You expected this to go well, then? Oh, how I hate to disappoint you, Francis.”</p><p>Francis felt his face twist in anger, and forcibly took a deep breath to calm himself. He had to fix this. Ann had asked this of him.</p><p>“I only want the best for you, James. I have always done, ever since those dark days stuck in the ice.” He heard the pleading tone in his voice and cringed at it. He pushed onward.</p><p>“Everything I have done, here and back there, with that monster.” Francis took a step forward, eye-to-eye with James. He was beautiful and terrible and still. “I did it for all of you, my men.”</p><p>“You know,” James replied in a voice of deadly calm after a moment of silence. “I truly believed we could discuss this. That I would speak truth and you would hear it in a way the Arctic prevented you from doing.”</p><p>James stepped back, face disappearing into the shadow. Francis felt his stomach drop and his emotions rise. The warmth that had suffused their supper felt long gone.</p><p>“And I felt the same,” Francis replied, voice turning sharp. “At least, James, to see a path to forgiveness. But I see now that I must be mistaken.”</p><p>“Forgiveness?” James paced back to the parlor chair and turned, as dramatic as Francis had always scorned in their early days. “Forgiveness for what, Francis? An error you continue to fail to understand?”</p><p>“Well,” Francis said, “I suppose I should take this as an answer. We cannot mend this.” The room was closing in on him, the air thick and oppressive. “So be it.”</p><p>He strode to the front door. The city air was the only thing left to him now. He had to leave, clear his mind through the refuge of the endless, winding streets.</p><p>“Running out again, are we?” James called to him with derision. “At least I get to see you leave with my own eyes this time.”</p><p>Francis didn’t deign to answer. He turned, grabbed his coat, and slammed the door.</p><p>
  
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. The Arctic, April 1848</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It took no more than ten seconds for Francis to awaken. He did so to utter confusion and quite a bit of pain. He immediately stuck his fingers into his mouth, and felt his slimy, intact tongue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The hell?” he croaked, and made to sit up. In the attempt, a sharp pain ripped through him, belly to neck. He lay back down, gasping. With a shaking hand, he slid his still-wet fingers over his chest. His shirt was torn open, and upon gentle prodding, so was his skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He drew his fingers upward, and looked at the sticky blood coating them with detached wonder. The beast had swiped him, then. And now, he would die. They would all die.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A face swam into his vision. Lank hair hung over much of the features, but Francis would know them anywhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Hickey,” he said, breath hiccuping.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Crozier,” Hickey responded. “And here you thought you could take my glory.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“F-followed us?” Francis stuttered. The adrenaline was wearing off. “Silna?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Hickey said, waving the shaman’s knife in one hand, Francis’ blood flicking off the blade, “Lady Silence is fine. Doesn’t even know what kind of trouble you’re in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now,” Hickey said in a singsong, swinging around to face the shore, “I know what you’re up to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis coughed, leg twitching. He could hardly move a finger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to leave you alive long enough so that you can see me take what you failed to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Offer,” Francis whispered, although he wasn’t sure it came out at all. Hickey ignored him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now, you have seemed somehow to tame him.” Francis looked up in horror at the Tuunbaq, who crouched, coiled with trembling energy, just beyond the shoreline. “Feels like you could have tried a bit earlier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The beast looked tired and ragged in the bright sunlight. Still, Francis knew the look in its eyes. It was desperate and hungry; it would kill in an instant. Why would it not cross the line?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What in God’s name?” he whispered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I doubt he is,” Hickey said gleefully. “And better off for it.” He loped over to the beast, blade glinting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t,” Francis ground out, mustering all of his remaining strength into a single syllable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hickey continued forward. He stopped with his toes at the line, standing straight and tall. Francis watched him bring the blade to his mouth, smelled the iron, heard the river of blood hit the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hickey’s bloody hand reached out, tongue slipping through two fingers. The Tuunbaq sniffed, and leaned in slowly. It looked like menace incarnate. Hickey did not bend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, nothing.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. London, December 1848</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It was quite cold by the time Francis made it around the block. The lack of facial hair meant that the crisp night air stung at his cheeks, and as much as he could remind himself that he had endured much worse for much longer, the body had a short memory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He made his way southward, taking little notice of the world around him, as his mind cleared from the emotional fog of the Rosses’ parlor. How dare James question his actions? To imply selfishness, of all things, was particularly galling. Francis had only ever considered the proposition because of the men. As long as they lived, his responsibility remained.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had been self</span>
  <em>
    <span>less</span>
  </em>
  <span>, if anything. Had been willing to sacrifice his own life, and live out his days under an Arctic sky. And James would have been safe and happy and still destined to marry or advance his career as he was doing now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis would have been content with that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>God, he could imagine it now. Laying in a Netsilik tent, thinking of James hale and hearty, and not the shadow of a man he’d been when Francis had left him for the ritual.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Selfish! Just because he had made a decision that would have given James his entire life back, with the barest lingering scars. Small as the cat scratches on his cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whole and happy, because of Francis. All James’ life, he would have thought of him, mourned him, loved him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis recognized the same cold shiver he’d felt the day of the cat scratch at the thought. Why did he fear the idea so greatly? What was so terrifying about the prospect of James’ hypothetical memorialization of him?</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Predictable</span>
  </em>
  <span>, James’ voice echoed at him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Selfish</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, God,” Francis said, voice dawning in realization.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Indeed, sir,” a voice rose from the alley. “Christmas Eve. Nice night to be out, isn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis startled as a man emerged from the darkness in a worn coat and hat. With a quick nod, he grunted in affirmation and kept walking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before long, he heard short, quick strides slapping the wet ground behind him. He quickened his pace, eyes scanning the dark storefronts for refuge. His legs ached with the cold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he made his way toward the end of the block, a large shadow blocked his path. Francis took a step back, and bumped into the solid chest of the man behind him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You seem a fancy sort,” the voice behind him said with the hint of a sneer behind it. “Nice waistcoat. Think Benjy and I can add some festive red to it for you, sir.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he could blink, the man in front of him hit him with a sharp left hook and knocked him to the ground, head bouncing on the pavement. The voice behind him let out an ugly cackle. “Happy Christmas to us, eh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis scrambled to his hands and knees, head swimming. Before he could rise, the massive brute that must have been “Benjy” kicked him in the ribs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t make this hard,” the voice said in soft malice. “If you do, who knows what Christmas gift the police will find here tomorrow morning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis tried to stand again, feet slipping on the ice. As soon as he rose, he caught a glimpse of a figure in the shadow of the alley, tall and lanky. Before he could make the figure out, Benjy knocked him back onto the ground, and everything went dark.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. The Arctic, May 1848</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Francis woke to the most god awful singing. “Stop,” he croaked. “Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will not,” the voice said. An undercurrent of anger ran through it. “You’ve been sleeping for two weeks now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thomas,” Francis whispered. “What happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blanky made his way to Francis’ bedside. “Apparently, Mr. Hickey’s actions led to the untimely demise of the creature.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How is that possible?” Francis struggled to sit up, and let out a strangled scream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Best stay lying down, Francis. The man almost gutted you like a fish.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis groaned and settled back against the cot. “How, Thomas? I saw it devour him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blanky shrugged. “Lady Silence and her people aren't telling. I believe that’s a sign that we should leave it be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright.” Francis felt his eyes growing heavy. “For now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He distinctly heard Blanky sigh before sleep overtook him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took another two weeks for Francis to see who he had most hoped to see. In that time, most of the men had visited him. Jopson, now looking much recovered, made sure he was presentable each morning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silna and the shaman had stopped by one night in the first week, leaving a cryptic message confirming the Tuunbaq’s demise. Francis had felt a mingled sense of sadness and relief at the news. Incredibly, the shaman maintained their agreement, ensuring the men’s survival until their rescue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That night, Francis painfully twisted in his cot. They had killed it, and now they were draining the Netsilik slowly, one day at a time. And still, they had helped them; they were continuing to help them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He needed his second.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had taken a few days of pleading with both Jopson and Blanky to engineer the meeting. Both men had seemed reluctant in the extreme.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, with James in his recovery tent, he understood why.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man looked thin, still frail, but strong. Much of his strength was present in his eyes, which were staring daggers at Francis.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You asked for me, Captain Crozier?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Francis hesitated, and opted for formality. “James. As I’m sure you’re aware, we need to make plans for our survival and rescue. The Netsilik have already sacrificed too much for us. We must find a way to contribute. I had hoped you would take the lead on this, as I’m —” He stopped at the sound of James’ snort of indignance, “currently indisposed.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And this is the only reason you asked for me?” James replied, quite nastily in Francis’ view. “Let me bring you up to date, then. Lieutenant Little and I have been managing very well without you. As you intended, no doubt, when you decided on the foolhardy plan that landed you in this cot, half-dead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“James—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At any time, Francis, we could have discussed this!” James strode to Francis’ bedside and loomed over him. “You were going to become a servant of this beast, or, God forbid, killed by it, and you did not deign to tell me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was my only option to save you. It wasn’t worthy of discussion!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James looked down at him, face half-hidden in shadow. Francis imagined he could see concern there, but could not convince himself of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not worthy of discussion.” James said tightly. His hand clenched at his side. “Your life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis sighed. “I most likely would have lived, James.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, most likely, Francis, you would have spent the rest of your life voiceless and bound to a demonic beast, yet luckily you lay here free and almost cleaved in two.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I understand your anger,” Francis replied softly. “But, I cannot apologize for something I do not regret, James. I offered myself for your survival, and I would do it again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James blinked slowly before stepping away. “You feel no regret for these decisions, Francis? For leaving us with no first and without a clue as to your disappearance?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Francis said. “I do not regret leaving the men in your capable hands, free to live and return home, James. I will never regret it. I hoped, as I kneeled for that creature, that you would forgive me in my absence.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And yet, here you still are: alive, speaking, and untethered. A true conundrum for our relationship, and with that of your men.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Francis said, voice tinged with irritation. “And I will carry that for the rest of my days. I still do not regret it.” He wanted to yell, to rise, to shake James. He had offered himself in exchange for decades of life, for dozens of lives. How could he possibly regret it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see.” James let out a sigh and rubbed at his eyes. His voice sounded weary, and Francis ached at all of it. “After everything that has happened, all that we have become to each other, this is the deepest betrayal. I cannot see a way past it, Francis.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis felt his stomach swoop in dread.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will continue as your second, as is my duty. I will ensure our survival. But do not mistake this for a return to our previous relationship.” James nodded sharply and left the tent without waiting for a response.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Still no regrets, Francis?</span>
  </em>
  <span> he thought to himself in the silence of James’ departure.</span>
  <em>
    <span> Here you are, having lost that who is closest to you, torn open, at the end of the world. Was it worth it?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis felt tears prick at his eyes as he lay in the oppressive silence of the tent. </span>
  <em>
    <span>James lives</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he reminded himself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Even if you lost him, he lives. Just as you imagined it would end when you agreed to the arrangement with the Netsilik.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He closed his eyes and forced himself to sleep. Tomorrow, the silence and distance of his men would welcome him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a long six weeks before Sir James Clark Ross found them.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. London, December 1848</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When Francis came to, he imagined for a second that he was back in the Arctic. Cold surrounded him, and the air smelled of blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He felt a tug on his arm, and the shifting of his body upright against another’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“James?” He asked, voice garbled and faint. “Wha’ happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You walked out into the night alone at midnight on Christmas Eve,” James said. “Unsurprisingly, you were mugged.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James sighed and hoisted him up by the shoulder. “Come on now, Francis, walk! I can’t carry you home on my own.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where’re the muggers?” Francis slurred.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never mind them,” James huffed. “Let us just say that my strength is much recovered these days.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis shook his head to clear it. “Right.” Together, they made the long trek back to the Rosses’ in silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once they made it back to the parlor, James deposited Francis in one of the chairs and disappeared into the washroom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He came back with an armful of supplies in tow, which Francis recognized almost immediately as the same he had used for James’ scratches just days before. “Sit up, now. I need to clean you up and bandage you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis winced as he complied. “How did you know?” he said, as James dunked the still-stained washcloth of a few days ago into the water bowl.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How else? I followed you.” Francis squeezed his eye shut as James vigorously rubbed at what must have been a fresh cut over his brow. “It really is quite stupid to take walks alone at this hour, Francis.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never had problems before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James sighed. “Sir James and Ann told me what you looked like before, so I would believe it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis sat in silence as James cleaned his face. “Add it to the list of grievances, I suppose,” James muttered to himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“James,” Francis perked up, suddenly reminded of their earlier disagreement. “James. I understand now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James arched a brow at him. “You understand that I have a long list of grievances against you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Francis said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.” James knelt down and began to roll up one pant leg.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis watched him work on the scrape over his knee, dazed by the unfamiliarity of it. “I take walks to think,” he said softly, tracing James’ handiwork with half-lidded eyes. “They remind me of the trek I used to make between </span>
  <em>
    <span>Erebus</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Terror</span>
  </em>
  <span>. To see you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James hummed, and dipped the cloth back into the bowl.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“James,” Francis said, this time more urgently. “You were right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James narrowed his eyes and reached for a bandage. “You really must try to be more specific, Francis.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was selfish.” Francis reached down and lay his hand over James’. “I am selfish.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James finally looked up at him, eyes speculative. He stayed silent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis swallowed. “Before you came, Ann asked me to speak my heart. The truth is, James, I did not understand it myself. In the Arctic—” he paused again, James’ eyes boring into him, tender and merciless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In the Arctic, I was prepared to sacrifice myself, to see you and the others survive. I knew that you could lead them home. And I would stay in that desolate place, bound to that creature, warmed by the thought of your memory.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James slid his hands up to rest on Francis’ shoulders. “I know all this, Francis. From the first I heard of your plan, I understood your intentions. But you never consulted, or spared a second thought, as to how cold those memories would feel for us, for me, at home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Francis agreed. “And tonight, I gave you your Christmas gift with the same intentions. I knew that you would leave, that I had irreparably ruined our brotherhood. But, I thought that perhaps I could maintain a sliver of your affection through your words. Even if just on occasion.” Francis reached out a shaky hand and brushed James’ cheek. “Selfish as it may be, I still hope to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James shook his head in wonder. “Predictable, Francis. You assumed I would leave; you did not know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Francis’ eyes widened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am not leaving. No marriage, no new expedition.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then, why—” Francis stuttered. “Why the meetings, the social what have yous, the—“ Francis stopped when he realized he had never determined what exactly James had been doing over the past few days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am attempting to stay here with you, Francis,” James whispered, leaning in. “That’s why I came. As much as you angered me, I missed you quite terribly. And so, I still held a slim hope you would understand, and we could begin to rebuild what we once had.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis took in James’ anxious, angular face. The beauty of it was almost too great to bear. “Oh, how I missed you, James,” Francis breathed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James ducked his head in relief, and Francis felt the cold terror that had intermittently churned inside him since the Arctic intensify to an almost unbearable degree. Francis closed his eyes and remembered the greatest moments of it: when the desolate, roaring wind surrounded them at the cairn; when he had gazed on James’ sickly face at camp for what he believed was the last time; when he felt all had been lost as he lay carved up in a cot in a Netsilik tent; when James had showed up at the Rosses’ front door, curled hair blowing in the winter wind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis shivered, and forced himself to speak. “And we can regain our friendship, our brotherhood, if I offered more to you, as you deserve?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James let out a soft laugh. “More than that, Francis, if you allow it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And if I offered everything?” Francis whispered. He trembled under the weight of James’ gaze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then I would accept it,” James replied, and leaned in. Francis met him halfway, and opened and opened and opened.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks so much to my art partner, Katherine (@katherine1753), for going on this journey with me. Her illustrations really brought everything to life, and her attention to seeing this through made it all come together beautifully. </p><p>The hymn in Chapter 7 is from Frances Ridley Havergal's "Take My Life and Let it Be." The hymn was published in 1874 -- way too late for this story! But, I liked it too much not to use it.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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